Sales Pitch
by Bearbutt
Summary: Jake Muller and Sherry Birkin enter the dangerous game of parasitic warfare and lies by infiltrating an American Terrorist Cell. Who better to go undercover than the children of Bioterrorists William Birkin and Albert Wesker? Rated for future sexytimes, gross monsters, and three-piece suits.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey Kids. This idea came to me tonight. Sherry and Jake go undercover as bioterrorist. Gross parasites and hot sexytimes ensue.**

**That is, if you want it. This is a review per content story. I can end it here. My price is three reviews per chapter.**

**Hope you enjoy the sales pitch.**

Large industrial fans spin overhead. Their blades block the light and cast spinning shadows over the floor. Black leather wingtips make unpleasant, muffled clangs on the metal grate floor.

He huffs.

Why do terrorists always go for cliched look these days? At least the megalomaniacs have class. He'll take a fancy mansion with a solid gold siddhartha any day.

The man escorting him is dressed in the usual peacekeeper-turned-merc attire. He wonders how he'll react to being told that his beret looks stupid.

He composes his smug face. He has a partner in the game too. Any slip of cover could end with a bag over his head or worse.

The warlord's chamber is a little fancier. They sprung for a plasma TV and a rug.

"Wow. A few throw pillows here and there and you'll have really made it. No, seriously, though, I love what you've done with the place. Reminds me of this old warehouse that used to throw raves back in Moscow."

Cocky, arrogant. That's his cover.

The Warlord's face is a jowled frown. Frog-like eyes barely move as he registers his guest's appearance. He waves a hand to lower the guns pointed at the other man.

"You have the sample."

"All I need is a volunteer."

A gun points towards his head. He laughs and shakes his head.

"While I'd love to, gentlemen, my Father made sure I was quite immune."

He's playing himself. Just one key feature.

The bleach in his regularly brassy hair and pair of black shades. His smile is full of sharp teeth. He isn't Jake Muller. He's Albert Wesker Jr.

The guard next to him collapses and begins to foam and convulse. Small burning holes start to form in his limbs. Jake holds up a finger as the soldiers aim their red sights on him.

"This is the best part."

Burrowing out of the holes appear thousands of inky black worms. They cover his limbs like cords of replacement tissue. It forms a black writhing suit of armor. It stands taller.

"Now, gentlemen. I'd recommend aiming your fire at our friend here just to show you how indestructible he is."

Gunfire. Followed by screams. He can't speak whatever their brand of English is, but he's sure they're saying something along the lines of,

"ARRGH I'm being devoured by something that looks like Venom from Spiderman!"

The Warlord looks visibly shaken.

"So, in the spirit of domestic bioterrorism, do we have a deal?" Jake says.

There's a hum in his earpiece.

**"Looks like we're in."**


	2. Chapter 2

**As per stated: Three reviews gets a new chapter. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far. If you have any questions or would just like to talk about Resident Evil, feel free to drop me a line. **

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"We're in."

It's honestly a miracle that Jake makes it out of that warehouse alive. He backtracks and changes routes four times to make sure to lose any tail. The black mustang (fuel and cost inefficient, also terrible for the environment) rumbles to a stop outside of the hotel he and Sherry are renting on the Government's dime.

The hotel is fancy, but in such a generic way. Garish stucco columns frame the lobby. The ceiling is a reproduction of a Michelangelo fresco (The Conversion of Saul). There's a fucking fountain with cherubs just adding to the moisture of the large room. Jake wonders if the spattering water makes the paperwork a bitch.

Behind the desk is a young woman with perfectly parted brown hair and a long sleeved blouse that hides her tattoos. Jake thinks she's the most interesting person in the hotel. Excluding Sherry.

The hotel staff are used to his coming and going by now. They see him as some rich man's kid with a shit attitude and a fancy car. He's a good character actor. His swagger causes the polished black shoes to leave a scuff on the white floor of the lobby. He makes sure to shoot a grin at the frowning bellhop.

Once in the gold-plated elevator, Jake relaxes back into himself. He cracks his neck and fixes a weird under-wedgie he's had for the past half hour. No longer 'Wesker Jr', he can take off the sunglasses. Because normal people don't wear sunglasses inside.

The elevator dings open. Jake rubs at his sinuses. Little dents have formed from where the plastic of his sunglasses has dug in. It's like the world is punishing him for being a douchebag.

His footfalls are silent on the plush rug of the hotel hall. This disconcerts him. Jake likes to know when people are coming.

Which is why they rigged up a security system-but still, he likes trusting his own senses.

He fiddles with the keycard to the door, but still knocks before entering. It's their signal. When he enters the room Sherry's set up at her 'command station'. She goes shoeless and has her stocking-clad feet curled under her. Jake wears his shoes everywhere except the bed and the shower. Much easier to run when you're ready.

"How was my performance?" He takes a beer out of the fridge. It's imported from Poland. A weird find in the liquor store down the street.

"A little hammy, but then again, it comes with the territory." Sherry doesn't look up from her screen.

Jake frowns. He just risked his life and Sherry isn't going to give him her full attention. He sheds his black coat on the back of a dining room chair and joins her by the desk. Sherry's managing their "offshore bank accounts" which are really just government funds made to look dirty.(Well, knowing the government, there's probably lots of blood and dirt on that money already.)

"Looks like they're taking the bait."

More zeroes than Jake's ever earned are suddenly added to their chequing account. He eyes the dark blonde curls at the nape of Sherry's neck. He wants to brush them aside with a thumb and press a kiss there. He gets close enough to tickle the area with his breath when she shifts suddenly.

"That's from the Sons of Arnold."

"I still find it ridiculous that America has separatists."

"Yeah, well, you're Edonian."

"And thus, I have lived through a civil war."

"Mmhm. And I'm sure the losers will still be pissy about it a hundred years later."

She's looking at him now. Her eyes are yellow in this light and it makes Jake smile like a predator.

"I'll take that bet." He says with his voice just a breath.

"Plan on being around in one hundred years?"

"Oh yeah. We both will be. Then you'll owe me money."

"What, like fifty bucks?"

He laughs and mutters something in Ukranian. It gives Sherry brief pause. She returns to the screen. The moment is gone.

Jake goes to take a shower. The hair on his neck raises as he passes the front door. Someone's fiddling with the lock. He can hear the hum of the keycard.

Sherry's on her feet in an instant, gun loaded and pointed at the door.

"Jake, get back."

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**Tell me what you think.**


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